


Untitled 28

by solipsist



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Cannibalism, F/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 09:46:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13587492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solipsist/pseuds/solipsist
Summary: Being an adult isn't as easy as the cool kids say. Sometimes a little debauchery is what we all need to get through the day.





	Untitled 28

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first seriously written story in almost three years.. mmmmaybe leave some criticism at the end? enjoy :>

Despite her client being an apparent chainsmoker, the young call girl could not help but notice the pristine state of the apartment. Mr Miller, as he called himself, had gone through two cigarettes in the hour she spent with him and yet, if she were able to detect anything in his sitting room, it would have been the faint scent of bleach and cologne. 

“You have a nice place. How much do you pay for it?” she asked, breaking the silence.  
The pair hadn’t spoken since they entered his apartment door, and it was all she could do to make measly attempts at conversation. She offered a tight lipped smile while watching him light up a third cigarette while handing her a glass of pale wine. 

She sat on the cream couch, lax and evidently bored. One thin ankle crossed over the other while she accepted the drink and demurely took a sip.  
“Oh, is this Chardonnay?” She attempted again.

“Why, yes it is.” William Afton said, snuffing out his cigarette on the marble ashtray and sitting next to her on the couch. With one hand, he brought the girl closer to him, and laid the other gently on her lap.

“I certainly hope you enjoy it. It would be a shame for it to go to a waste. As for my apartment… while the exact price is not for you to know, I can assure you, this is one of the more expensive units you can get.” he teased, mindlessly fiddling with the hem of her yellow ribbed dress.

“Yeah, it’s nice.” The girl said, nodding blankly.

Her glass composure was thrown off by a sudden kiss from her partner. Not waiting a single second, she turned to wrap his thick hair between her skilled fingers, bringing him closer. With a well practiced sigh, she pushed William down on the couch, tenderly rubbing him. Her hands played at the now hardening lump as if they were years old lovers while he kissed her neck. She let go of William’s coal black hair to pull away, so that she could breathe, but his own hands leapt up to grab at her curly locks, pushing her downwards.  
Obediently, she undid his belt, and took it into her mouth, faking a loving stare back at him. Clearly indifferent to her attempts, William laid back, allowing his head to roll away and stare up at the ceiling.  
He draped his arm over his eyes, relishing the moment of peace and allowing a small smile to play on his lips while he silently whispered praises to the prostitute. There was no talking as he twirled her hair around his soft, feminine hands.  
William’s laugh broke through the cold silence.  
“I want to fucking kill my wife.” He whispered into her ear, letting go of her hair.

Bold statements like this never shocked the girl. She was rather used, detached almost, to adulterous men proclaiming their violent fantasies of shoving their wives’ hand down the sink and reviling in the raw crunch of bone and flesh, or of leaving her to be devoured by starved pigs while her pulpy remains were left to rot in the waste, or discarded on the streets, her guts spread out for miles around for rubbernecked drivers to marvel at.  
She paused for a moment pretending she was shocked, then licked William’s groin, eliciting a soft moan from him.

“Yes, I’m going to.. I’m going to smash her ugly face in. It’ll save everyone the trouble of staring at it during the funeral.” He muttered, sounding half crazed. She kissed him gently, and continued to suck at him, until William’s strict dignity broke. He uttered a barely contained moan, hands gripping onto her head and yanking harshly in pleasure before he rode out the climax, and melted back into apathy once more. 

She quietly spat out residual taste, and crawled up next to William, peppering his face with kisses. Ignoring her advances, William silently lapsed into thought, observing the plastic clock that was ticking away on the wall.

He mindlessly kissed the prostitute back and turned the television on, illuminating the room in soft plastic westerns. William gasped softly when he felt her warm, nimble hands take him back out and inside of her.  
After several minutes of her riding him, William half heartedly muted the film and took her face in his hands, looking into her eyes. 

“Lydia, we’ve been… been seeing each other for several weeks. I have a confession to make.” He said, his breath tickling her face.

Lydia attempted not to roll her eyes. She had heard this hundreds, if not thousands of times in the past. Declarations of love were a thing of the past for her. It seemed as if any washed up drunk would fall in love with her after enough sex. They’d crawl to her, beg her on their knees (Oh Brooke, I love you! We can start a new life together!) before returning faithfully to their families. 

Despite the answer she predicted, Lydia moved in closer to William, closing her eyes and leaning into his touch to create the illusion of romance. At least he was rich, she comforted herself.

“Y - yes, Miller?”

Disapprovingly, he shoved her face off of his hand, obviously disgusted by the idea of intimacy. His eyes were still focused on the television, his passive expression contorting into a smirk as he relished the moment.

“You’re a fucking ugly little bitch. And Jesus Christ, get a real job. With a pair of tits like these, there’s no way you’re making any real salary out of this.” He spat out in her face. Lydia’s body went still with shock.

Emotion finally lit up his greyed eyes. William firmly grabbed onto her hips, digging his fingers into her freckled complexion, leaving red marks.  
“Why on earth did you choose something as humiliating as this?” He said, laughing sadistically. “Christ, I understand having to leave school, but this? It’s dehumanizing.”

Disgust and fury riddled Lydia’s small face. She yanked at William’s wrists, screaming,“Let go of me, you pervert!” His fingers dug further into her now bleeding hip and Lydia’s eyes teared up.

 

“Ooh - if it wasn’t school, was it your family? Ugh, I can certainly relate - but I cannot see dear old dad allowing his daughter to go and - and fuck men older than him!”  
Finally, William compiled and let go of her hips. Before Lydia had a chance to escape, William wrapped his hands around her neck, swiftly overpowering her and yanking her underneath him, tightening his grip. 

“You’re riddled with diseases!” He continued as Lydia struggled against his grip, gasping for breath.  
William slammed her head down on the arm of the couch, a resounding crack echoing through the room.  
“Didn’t even fucking finish school-”  
The next slam was accompanied with a howl of pain.

“You can’t contribute - not even fucking good at sex! What kind of a worthless-”  
Tears ran down her face, while gurgled shrieks rang out. 

“Please,  
She screamed, her voice cracking.  
“ Shut up,  
” he roared in her face.  
Despite his supposed profession as a hardened serial killer, William was a natural born empath. It was something he felt afflicted with - a curse that seeped into every part of his hobby. A part of him craved screams and cries of pain, while the other violently shied away and shared the victim’s pain. 

His head pounded, his throat closing up in mutual panic with her.Something inside William screamed to let go. In response, he smashed her down two more times for good measure before momentarily letting go and groping around the floor in search of her silken panties. 

Horribly dizzy and sick, Lydia let out another scream of terror, and took advantage of the time window. Hot cherry nails caught hold of her attacker’s face and sunk into his well cared for skin, dragging down painfully, before she punched him away, and began to run. 

Her brain was throbbing in her skull, her legs refused to cooperate as the joints tensed and locked up in terror. The room seemed to have spun at her feet; but ever determined, she fought the waves of nausea the best her weakened body could, and mustered a wobbled sprint to the door. She had barely touched the smooth marble of the doorway, until William collided with her once more. While previously kind and gentle, his hands clutched at mussed blonde hair, lifting her face up and crunching back into the hard floor over and over, until blood splattered outwards. 

William was beyond furious. He almost shook in a frenzy, and the first words to come out of his mouth were a harsh berating.

“Don’t touch my face -  
” He screamed, empty eyes burning with hatred. Using one hand to hold her flailing body down, William switched a taser on and flipped to the highest setting. The black box buzzed with a grim purpose as he brought it down onto the back of her neck.

23 seconds.  
23 seconds to kill someone.  
23 seconds to use a taser on high voltage, applied to the base of the skull.  
23 seconds.  
23 seconds. 

He took no pleasure out of killing her.  
As her broken voice drowned into pitiful silence, her body only twitching because of the occasional current, William’s fire was replaced with despair. His chest felt empty, as if there was now a hole inside, as if with her death, Lydia had scooped away his poisonous traits - emotions that made him human.  
When sure he was atop a corpse, William turned the weapon off and pocketed it. 

Standing up, he combed back his hair with his fingers, and prodded the body with his shoe. Confirming his victory, William flicked the lights on and stumbled to the kitchen, hastily preparing himself an apparently deserved cocktail for the night. 

His mind wandered to other things. To his family, to his friend Henry.  
To his job tomorrow, to the chore of disposing of the body.  
To the movie that still played on the television. 

William swore in annoyance when he realized he had left the television on - resulting in him missing a large part of the movie.  
While making his way to the couch, William picked up rumpled clothing and knocked over items. Setting down his glass atop rearranged magazines, he internally thanked himself for a bloodless murder. 

When William managed to break free of his concentration, the clock read four. Inwardly disgusted with himself, William resolved for a shower, and a half apologetic call to Henry.

The promised shower did nothing to improve his spirits. For fifteen minutes, William stood underneath the artificial rain, divorcing his body while hot water cascaded down him. It was never by choice; and if William hated empathizing with others, then he was revolted at the sensation of a failing mind and removed sense of self. 

Days where he left meant it was impossible to function, impossible to behave like everyone else, and always had seemed to end in several bottles of wine and a nap on the office floor. 

William finally tore himself out of the tiny, steam filled room and stumbled to the phone, dialing the number he knew so well.  
Henry was a creature of habit. He woke up at five on the dot, and was always ready for the day at six, down at Freddy’s at seven. 

Privately, William was gratified with catching him just in time, and felt an odd sense of relief when the other end of the line picked up.

“It’s me.” William declared. He knew Henry would know.  
There was no other person who would call him at such an hour. 

“Good morning,” replied the serious voice. “Beatrice missed you last night. I told her that you worked late.”

“Thanks. Listen, I have some business to attend to this morning. I’ll stop by tonight if you need anything.” 

No reply came. Sleep never came for the murderer that night.  
He listlessly sat on the couch, technicolor images and shouted words drifting in and out of his dazed mind. William’s glass had long since emptied out, but made no bother to refill it, instead idly played with the rim while tirelessly observing gunfight after gunfight on the plasma screen. 

Henry closed his eyes in disgust.  
Ten odd years of friendship, and Henry had learned the meaning behind every well rehearsed sentence William spewed at him. 

(business.)

“That’s quite alright. Please take care of yourself,” he said kindly, “And before you go and deal with… whatever it is this time, please say hello to your wife. It’s not fair for me to lie about you to her again.”

“Alright, “ William lingered with the handset, unwilling to hang up.  
“I love you.”

Henry’s brow creased, and his eyes did not open.  
“I know.”

Without the satisfactory reply William knew never to expect, he nodded to himself, feeling as if his skull were pried open for all to see. He did not bother with a farewell, and dropped the phone atop the receiver, rubbing his damp hair. 

The corpse still laid there, staining his fine marble floor, demanding to be splashed about and lapped up. Detesting the idea of further chaos happening in his quarters, William covered her face with a plastic bag and stiffly wiped away the liquid. William denied his urges for only a moment, gently biting into the jam colored rag, and savored the horrid metallic taste that filled his mouth. Sucking at the blood, William took a second paper towel and managed to restore the stone to its usual unsullied state. Disposing of the towels was easy; disposing of a human body, despite years of experimentation, was not. 

Thoughts of a breakfast came hand in hand with sharp pangs in his stomach, when William had realized he was starved. Despite the claims of every supermodel, he could never last more than two days on a diet of several gummy bears and strong drinks, and always caved to hastily fried meat prepared during early hours. 

A grim smirk settled on his healed face, when William realized he had solved his own problem.  
A half bottle of neon blue tequila and four strawberry bears later, he sat in the middle of his living room. William and the body were resting comfortably on a rug fashioned out of newspapers and garbage bags. 

With Lydia’s beaten face resting tenderly in his lap, William’s standard kitchen knife sliced neatly into the corpse’s pulpy skin. Pale white flesh, steadily decomposing, gave no resistance to the blade. Fresh blood swarmed everywhere, pooling on white brand name bags, staining photos and headlines, and discoloring his black pants.  
William was no stranger to raw meat, having eaten chunks in the past on high school dares, and his violence muddled mind saw no difference between a cow torn apart in a factory, and a human that lay on his floor.  
A strip was extracted, and William cut away a small bit for himself. Bloching his white hands, he hesitated, studying the ugly lump of thigh he intended to eat. Disgust rose up inside of himself, pushed away by determination.

As expected, William’s mouth filled with blood, nearly choking himself. He refused to allow himself to back out, and a bitter taste struck out. He choked at the newly discovered sensation, and resisted the need to vomit over his handiwork.  
He wasn’t weak.  
William was not weak.  
Once swallowed, queasiness took an internal foothold, but William denied it, and continued to cut the body up.  
Only a half hour passed before William laid out fifteen neat strips of flesh across his floor. 

It was a horrid, new low for him.  
Murderer, rapist, thief. Now, a cannibal.  
William brushed the thoughts away, refusing to allow himself to delve inside of human psyche and evil motivations that morning. Ghastly revelations about himself could be saved for another night, with another woman, another Chardonnay. 

Once he wrapped up the meat and stacked it carefully in his freezer, the remainder of William’s day was a blur. Alcohol, cigarettes, and curt talks with Henry were all he could recall. William was almost sure that he slept the better part away in his office. 

Any pretense of sophistication was abandoned when he entered his house. He paid no greeting to his wife .  
She was sitting in the foyer, patiently reading her homemaking magazines. William made an instantaneous beeline to the kitchen, unlocking vodka and sitting across from her with the bottle. 

Without looking up, her icy cold tone sliced through the silence.  
“Stop telling Henry to lie to me.”

A rustling flip of pages, several swigs in reply. 

“I never asked him to respond.”

“No, but he was the one who picked up.”

“I was busy.”

William’s wife chuckled grimly, “At least you can afford the abortion.”

He did not bother to deny her allegations, and shifted to lie on the couch. William covered his face with an arm, “Any news?”

“Policemen stopped by today.”  
Another flip.  
“If you could at least wait a few months before making those ridiculous purchases, it would be easier on us. I don’t know where you think you’re living, but if you’re going to buy a new car, right when you report heavy losses in your restaurant, you’re going to be a prime suspect.”

“Beatrice, you needed the car.”

“And I need a husband that isn’t a queer.” She said, her voice never rising.

If William were standing and sober he would have certainly taken the bait, would have begun an argument with her. Instead, he sighed in heavy annoyance.  
“We’ve been through this before, Bea.”

“Spare me the melodramatics, William. You may as well be his wife.  
“At any rate,” Beatrice’s tone changed abruptly, “I’m going to bed.”  
She dropped the magazine to her side, and took the vodka away from her husband.  
“Please go and say good night to your son.”  
Beatrice did not offer him any further conversation, and disappeared into the dark hallway. 

Feigning sleep, William’s mind drifted back to the announcement he had made to the girl rotting in the bins.

(i want to fucking kill my wife)

Was it true? William could not say that he hated his wife. He had only hastily married her for appearances, and had only employed their rocky relationship as a cheap scare tactic to throw his victim off.  
If anyone knew the kind of man William was, it was her. They were not lovers, only friends reluctantly bound by law and premarital sex. From the start, Beatrice was well aware of the debauchery that seeped every part of her husband’s life, and had chosen to never say a word about it.  
She was unafraid of him, even when faced with the most gruesome of his delights, Beatrice stood there stone faced, another witty insult broiling inside her lax brain. 

And her apathy terrified William.  
He created a world for himself. A world of malice and deceit, where even the simplest of gestures had a cruel, underhanded meaning. That was how he saw others.  
Kindly, old nuns preached with a hand inside church funds. Parents concerned themselves with the affairs of their children, worried about black marks that little Jimmy and Mary would leave on their reputations. The soldiers took pleasure in mindless destruction, and teachers only here to molest children. 

One part of William’s mind simply reasoned that she stayed for the money, and if their divorce appeals were not denied, Beatrice would happily be on her way with welfare check after welfare check.  
Life was never as simple as that. Beatrice had to be waiting - she had to have a far more nefarious reason to take away his corpses and murder weapons in total silence. Not even Henry knew the extent of his crimes, but she. 

Once William managed to summon the will to get up, he blearily stumbled to his son’s room. For once, a kind smile lit up his tired face, as William sat on the bed.  
“What’s that you’re reading?”

“Teen Titans,” came the nonchalant reply.

“Alright,” William laughed, “were you kind to mother while I was gone?”

“Yes sir!”

“Good.”  
He ruffled Michael’s soft, brown hair, and stood up.  
“Go to sleep now. You have school tomorrow, and I don’t want to hear about you falling asleep during class.”  
William gently kissed his son on the forehead, and placed the comic book on the desk, before turning the lights off.

Thoughts inside screamed at him, when William opened his bedroom door.  
Beatrice was already asleep, and William gazed upon her immobile form on the bed.  
Marrying her was a mistake.  
The children, the confessions, everything was a horrible mistake.  
There was no way to peacefully resolve this. William could not leave, could not back out and away from the years he spent with her, from the secrets Beatrice knew. 

Only one horrible answer stood out to him around the rest.  
Brandishing the gun in his left hand, William pointed the barrel down to her white forehead. His nervous thumb fiddled with the trigger, his breath quickening, stomach knotting up.  
Beatrice would be the one to ruin his life - death was the only salvation anyone could ask for, 

The murderer stood there for minutes, unable to force himself to add another body.  
Unhappy with himself and the hole he had dug for himself, William threw the gun to the side and shook his head. He couldn’t kill her - but couldn’t let her live.  
To kill her would be to destroy what remained of his life.  
But to allow his wife to live promised destruction to himself as well. 

In the morning, William promised himself, it’ll be clearer.  
He lay next to her, draping an arm across her shoulders and chest. William gave her a tight squeeze, and kissed her neck.  
Woken up, Beatrice sleepily hit his arm, “Go to sleep,” she whispered.  
“I’m not having sex at this hour.”

William consented, and buried his face in her thick hair, paranoid thoughts still tearing apart at his fate.


End file.
